Page 25 of Searching for Mr Tilney

We both chose Welsh rarebit, and then because it turned out to be a lot better than we feared, we followed that up with scones and jam, forgoing the cream which was a lot worse than we’d hoped, as it appeared to have clotted far too long ago. The scones were a bit hard, and we were both laughing about breaking our teeth, when a figure outside the window caught our attention. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There, just two feet in front of me was the last person I expected to see.

Chapter Thirteen

It was Harry! He was staring into the shop window looking at us both, and he didn’t look very happy though it was hard to be sure, as the bull’s eye glass distorted his face quite a lot. It took a moment to register it was actually Harry, I was so surprised, but when I eventually closed my mouth, all I could do was wave.

He half-waved back again, and grimaced, before turning up the collar on his leather coat and walking off. If proof were needed, I felt that last act said it all, and it was so hard to hide my disappointment.

‘Who was that?’ Piers asked.

‘Oh, he’s just a friend … at least, I think he’s a friend. I don’t really know him very well.’

‘Though you’d like to know him better.’

‘Is it that obvious?’

Piers gave me a long look and nodded. ‘Some people wear their heart on their sleeve … I know I do too. You can’t help it, you know, if you’re the sensitive type.’

‘Perhaps my obvious heart has put him off,’ I said, ‘though I tried really hard not to appear too eager.’

‘Well, perhaps he didn’t want to intrude. He saw you with another man, after all.’

I hadn’t thought of it like that, though it still seemed an equally ridiculous way to behave, storming off when Piers could just as easily have been a brother, as much as a boyfriend. Except that I realised I’d told Harry that I was an only one, and for the first time I noticed how handsome and well turned out Piers looked in his long and expensive looking wool coat, his perfectly groomed hair and moustache, styled just like Freddie Mercury, under a rakish Fedora.

‘Oh dear, I should have gone after him,’ I said.

‘No, my dear, that’s precisely what not to do,’ said Piers in a voice so confident of his own advice that I was sure he was right. ‘If you have been too keen, though I’m sure you’re overestimating the case, he will now be re-considering. Besides, you’ve not done anything wrong … you are simply enjoying lunch with a friend, and if he can’t cope with that, then he probably isn’t the right man for you. Either way, letting him think on it all will only serve you well.’

Piers was talking just like Bertie Wooster, but I hoped he was right.

‘He is awfully handsome … I can quite see why you’ve lost your head,’ Piers added, liberally spreading jam on the last of his scone.

‘Yes, he is, isn’t he?’ I dared to say out loud, and the image of his beautiful, yet stern face crowned with those luscious dark curls that looked quite wild today, rose up before me. Even when he was cross he couldn’t help looking wonderful.

We walked back to Pulteney Street, and by the time we rang the bell and Mrs Partridge was there to let us in, I was feeling a little better. Piers was very kind, I decided, and he’d made me see the whole situation in a more positive light, though I couldn’t help thinking that I might never see Harry again. It was ridiculous to be feeling so despondent, and I scolded myself … for everyone’s sake I vowed to put him out of my mind.

***

I really enjoyed my outing with Piers yesterday, and apart from Ellen pumping us for information, and giving what she imagines are secret looks to Roger the whole time, as if to confirm that she knew we’d get on “like a house on fire”, I’m glad I’m still in Bath. Piers is really fun, we do have a lot in common, and I’ve a feeling we’ll be friends for life, though I know poor Ellen still has hopes there’ll be a wild romance.

I’ve not picked up Jane’s journal after the last time, which was very draining. It’s as if I’m being sucked backwards in time, becoming the young girl whose thoughts and words tumble across the page with such life and energy I fear I may be taken over altogether. I feel all my strange experiences must be linked - what’s happening in Bath with Cassandra and Jane is directly connected to the past happenings described in the journal. I don’t know if it will make a difference, but I want to stay in the present where I belong for the time being.

***

Oh, I can’t believe what an exciting day this has turned out to be! But, I must record it all faithfully, now I’m home.

Piers suggested we go and see the Reynolds’ exhibition at the Victoria Art Gallery today. They’ve got a small exhibition on of his paintings, in the downstairs gallery, some of the famous ones with children, the kind you see on chocolate boxes or on prints in Woolworth’s, and because I’ve discovered Piers also loves all things Georgian, you can imagine we were really looking forward to it.

‘I think they called these “fancy pictures” … paintings of beggar or peasant children seemed particularly popular at this time, especially if they told a story,’ said Piers, as we walked along gazing in awe at the deft brushwork, and Reynolds’ ability to capture the impish looks of small children.

We stopped in front of a painting described as The Strawberry Girl whose expression was a combination of timidity and fear.

‘She looks as if she might burst into tears at any moment,’ I said. ‘I can see why they were so popular … she’s a sweet child.’

Our favourite painting, without doubt, was An Age of Innocence, a portrait of a bare-footed girl seated on the grass, against a background of a stormy sky, landscape and trees, and even though there seemed to be some dispute about the sitter, and even the title, it didn’t take away from the charm of her lovely face. The date on the label said 1788, which made me think of Jane’s journal.

‘It says here that they think it was actually painted three years earlier, and exhibited in 1785, with the title, A Little Girl,’ I said, reading the plaque on the wall.

‘Sometimes artists started a painting, but then wouldn’t finish it for many years,’ Piers added. ‘Provenance is the rule for me, regardless of anything else. Considering the age of all the paintings, it’s a wonder any of them are easily identified or have clear dates. Even the style of the clothes isn’t a definite marker, as artists of the time seemed to dress their subjects in all sorts of fashions.’